34

‘IT IS A TRAGEDY. EVERYONE is . . . shocked. No one can really believe it.’

Ballarde, the investigating officer in Forcalquier who’d been called in after the bodies of Léo and Marie-Ange had been found, was a small man with rimless spectacles, a healthy paunch pressing against his shirt buttons, and thinning brown hair. He wore grey Sta-prest trousers and brown suede shoes, and a grey jacket a shade darker than the trousers hung from the back of his chair. He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh and shook his head.

‘The Chabran family is well known?’ asked Jacquot, looking down on the market square from Ballarde’s second-floor office. The Monday market was in full swing, the place crowded with stalls, a chequerboard of coloured awnings that seemed to shiver as much from a light breeze as the hustle and bustle in the walkways between them.

‘Well known and well loved. For generations,’ replied Ballarde.

‘And Davide Chabran?’

Ballarde spread his hands.

‘The Comte? Where do I start? Eighty-six years old. A naval officer until Toulon in 1942, a fearless résistant for the duration, much-decorated for his exploits after the war. His wife died years ago, but he never remarried. Has no children. The estate will pass to Léo . . . Would have done.’

‘So what will happen now?’ asked Brunet, sitting on a plastic sofa below a wine map of France, each of the principal regions highlighted in different colours.

Ballarde started to shake his head.

‘There is another nephew. A few years younger than Léo. He lives in Australia. Not a Chabran. The name is Hugonnet. At least it’s French.’

‘And Léo’s father and mother?’ asked Jacquot.

‘Killed in an air-crash. Early seventies. Léo Chabran must have been about thirteen or fourteen years old. The parents were going on holiday. To Sicily. On the flight from Rome to Palermo, the plane flew into a mountain.’

‘And Léo had lived with his uncle ever since?’ asked Jacquot, noticing that Ballarde’s desk was not only piled with teetering, spilling files but made of metal – an old-style office desk, the kind a junior civil servant might be given. Strong, utilitarian. When Jacquot had arrived in Cavaillon, the same kind of desk had occupied his new office. By the first lunchtime he had had the item removed and gone into town in search of a suitable replacement.

‘That’s correct,’ replied Ballarde. ‘The family had a house near Manosque. Monsieur le Comte sold the property and moved the boy into the château.’

‘Tell me about the trap,’ said Jacquot. ‘Are they still used hereabouts?’

‘Snares, maybe; and sometimes small gin-traps. But nothing as large as the one we found. A real monster. Weighed in at around eighteen kilos . . . big enough to bring down a bear. Whoever put it there must have known what they were doing. And they’d have needed clamps to set those springs.’

‘In the report you said it was American.’

‘An American manufacturer, that’s correct. Cornelius Truscott, Traps and Supplies, Oregon. Stamped in full on the foot-pad. But it was old – a real antique – and the firm is long gone. We checked.’

‘So there’s no way of finding out where it might have come from?’

Ballarde shook his head.

‘It could have been in someone’s attic or cellar. Maybe even an antique shop. You know, something to hang on the wall. I have one of my men checking, but I’m not hopeful.’

Jacquot nodded, breathed in the sharp scent of lavender from the stalls in the place.

‘Léo Chabran worked for the Gendarmerie Maritime, as I’m sure you know. Based in Toulon. Did he spend a lot of time here, with his uncle?’

‘A regular visitor. At least once a month. And always here for the olive harvest. The estate has maybe twenty hectares planted. They make their own oil. Huile d’Olive Maison Chabran. It is very good. You can buy it in the market.’ Ballarde tipped his head towards the open window, indicating the market stalls below.

‘And when Léo Chabran visited, did he always go for a run? And if so, did he always follow the same route?’

‘According to his uncle, he never missed a morning’s run. And always used the route he was found on. It’s roughly circular, around twenty kilometres in all, from the house towards the village, then up through the woods to the top of the ridge, and back down again. It would be a tough run, I’ll tell you that.’

‘And the Chabran house is near Cruis, I believe,’ said Jacquot, turning away from the window, leaning against the sill.

‘The château, yes. A few kilometres beyond the village, on the road to La Bane. There is a set of gates, with stone anchors set on the pillars. The family has a long tradition of serving in the Navy.’

Jacquot took this in. So Léo was following in his family’s footsteps, albeit with the Gendarmerie Maritime rather than the fleet.

‘But if you wanted to see Monsieur le Comte,’ Ballarde continued, ‘I am afraid he is not at home.’

‘But I spoke to him just yesterday,’ said Jacquot, puzzled.

‘Then you would have spoken to him in Metz. He left on Friday, after Léo’s burial, to attend the young lady’s funeral. According to his housekeeper, he is not expected back until Thursday or Friday.